


Displaced Horizons

by notsohandsomejack



Category: Call of Duty (Video Games), Call of Duty: Zombies - Fandom
Genre: M/M, i want to give ascension group some love, i’ll update tags as it goes, science men are good ok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:47:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21993955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notsohandsomejack/pseuds/notsohandsomejack
Summary: Doctor Dmitriy Zima keeps his nose down with his work. After the fall of Group 935 and the rise of Ascension, a spacetime arms race continues to threaten the unknowing universe. Will the fragmenting multiverse crush him? No. Will he play his part in restoring order? Probably not.
Relationships: Harvey Yena/Original Character
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	Displaced Horizons

**Author's Note:**

> hey!! i’ve been in the zombies fandom for a long time and i’ve decided to try my hand at writing for everyone’s beloved Ascension gang.
> 
> this isn’t beta’d and i wrote it at 4 am so it’s a lil short and if there are mistakes i am so sorry. 
> 
> is it gay to love your scientist bro? it’s probably gay.

One final scratch of a pen. A releasing click of a tape recorder. 

With a sigh, Dr. Dmitriy Zima leans back against his rolling chair with a heavy sigh. His bony hand sweeps up through his ratty blond hair and falls limply beside his thigh. On the desk in front of him are papers scattered about and stacked in heaps. A single page at the top of one of the stacks is embroidered with red lining and a bright stamp of a skull and rocket design. Zima’s work with the Ascension group is purely business, he tells himself. Zima folds his hands over his belly and wedges the outsole of his shoe onto the siding of the desk. He turns himself side to side in the chair idly as he reflects on his handiwork.

A formal two-thousand page series of documents regarding the declaration of success of his latest prototype weapon model sits before him. Personally, Zima dislikes weapons. He dislikes war itself and its ugly bearings and its foul mongers. However, the agreement with partnering organizations and lobbyist funding dictate what his research would be. The scientist lowers his foot and scoots forward on his chair, beginning to gather the pages and reorganize them. As he sweeps through pages, his hand hovers over one page at the bottom of the stack with a co-signed line--an authorization by a colleague. 

Doctor Harvey Yena, Sc.D.

Zima’s lips form a line and he removes his wide-framed glasses from his face, dragging a hand down his tired skin. His pinky drags his lower lip with it in a dramatic motion as he groans. How long has it been since Zima had contacted Dr. Yena? Too long, he feels. Harvey has some research team organized for an expedition of something important that Zima can’t care to remember. Zima pinches the bridge of his nose and inhales before placing his glasses carefully back on his nose. As with all things, he reminds himself, in due time. 

Zima pushes away from his desk to stand up, his knees aching and his spine popping as he straightens his back. He sways and clears his throat, smoothing down the front of his sweater and adjusting its sleeves. Time to clear this mess, he thinks begrudgingly. He lifts the hefty stacks of paper and ignores the dull throb of getting old that plagues his back.

Navigating the halls of the Ascension group’s primary facility, Zima carefully lugs the first stack to the registration office. Luckily for the recluse of a man, the current staff are absent and he is free to distribute his submission papers without question. He drops the stack onto the receptionist’s desk, the paper’s contact with the surface creating a loud crack and shuffle as the pages settle. Zima rubs the small of his back and pulls his upper lip up slightly to scowl, retreating back through the long halls to his office to retrieve the second stack of papers. He kicks the door open with his foot and wiggles his way past the door frame, holding the door open with his hip, trying not to lose any pages with the breeze. A single, loose page slips from the top and sways to the floor like a poorly-made paper airplane. A strained, frustrated noise builds from within the Russian and erupts from his mouth in a loud grumble. He decides to come back for it.

Nearly throwing the second, and thankfully final, stack of papers onto the receptionist’s desk, Zima straightens his sweater with a huff, tugging at the sleeves with a silent thankfulness that he finally has a respite. As he rounds the corner of the office to retreat to his cave, shoes meet his vision, as well as a hand extended with a single sheet of paper held gently between the finger and thumb. “This seems rather important, doesn’t it, Doctor Zima?” a familiar smooth voice sings to him. Zima thinks he might die in that moment from the initial shock running up from his toes to his skull. 

“Harvey-” Zima’s voice cracks and he clears his throat, “Doctor Yena.” Harvey stifles a chuckle and shakes the paper lightly to get his attention. “I think an authorization request can’t be approved without the signed paper to go with it, right?” Zima’s eyebrows furrow. He takes the sheet from Harvey’s hand and looks it over, realizing it was the stamped sheet he’d looked at before. Great, now thank him, he tells himself. “I thought you were supposed to be on an expedition,” is what comes out of his mouth.

Incredible, he internally reprimands himself. Harvey simply shrugs and runs a hand through his oh-so-slightly graying hair. “I am, but the ship has been stalled by ice. It won’t arrive for another few days. I’m taking the time to make sure things… run smoothly while I’m away.” Zima straightens his shoulders and squints one eye. “You talk like the de-facto leader of our little charade.” Harvey laughs like a songbird. Zima’s chest tightens. “No, no,” Harvey shakes his head and waves his hand dismissively, “Doctor Gersh is just incompetent on his own sometimes, that’s all.”

“He’s not going with you?”

“Someone has to actually do work around here.”

“I do not like your implications, Harv.”

Harvey finds this incredibly amusing. Zima will never admit to the corner of his mouth possibly being upturned. He holds the page in his hands and stares down at it as a silence befalls them. Harvey seems distracted. Zima is always distracted. 

“Anyway,” Harvey begins with a sigh. “I have to head to the medical facility to secure a nightwatch for the monkeys.” He scratches his jaw in thought, a soft rasp from his nails on stubble. “I’ll uh, talk to you later.” Harvey retreats back down the hall with a hand in his lab coat pocket and Zima left frozen in place. 

He hadn’t expected Harvey to still be present. He hadn’t expected anyone to still be around besides the usual security and the occasional journeying researcher. Zima walks back into the office to place the last paper on top of the stack, staring down at Harvey’s signature above the Ascension stamp. He frowns, his lips in a line, annoyed with the dull ache stirring in his chest.

Damn American.


End file.
